Moments
by Genevievey
Summary: Little oneshots that capture moments in the life of Assumpta Fitzgerald and Peter Clifford.
1. Stalemate

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a short plot-less oneshot that popped into my head, and I'll post other such little stories in here (which is bound to happen, because Ballyk makes a prolific writer out of me!)_

_"Ballykissangel" belongs to Kieran Prendiville and the BBC, not myself. Please read & review! _

**Stalemate**

Patient was perhaps not the best word to describe Assumpta Fitzgerald. Tenacious yes, stubborn definitely, but patient..? She liked people who spoke the plain honest truth, and spoke it herself often enough; sometimes rather harshly. She had no time for mind-games or two-facedness. And this was the way she liked it; Assumpta believed herself to be perfectly secure in her judgements and beliefs, and felt that nothing would change who she was. At least, that was what she'd thought…

Fitzgerald's was busy, that night. The landlady sighed, grabbing a moment of respite as she leaned against the back wall. She let her gaze wander across the room, a familiar feeling washing over her. What was it, exactly? The faces and the chatter of her friends brought a gentle warmth, but it felt…incomplete. Not for the first time, Assumpta felt alone amid a sea of people. Oh, they'd notice if she disappeared, there'd be no one to pull pints—but all of these people would be gone at closing time, to their own homes and their own families, and she would be alone again. Naturally.

Well, there was one person who didn't always leave immediately after closing…Sometimes he'd linger, give her a helping hand (a partly-listening ear…) but in the end, he always left too. And she always cursed herself for feeling disappointed.

Her eyes fell on Peter (as they did far too often), sitting at a table by the window with Padraig. They were engaged in a friendly game of chess, hiding laughter behind competitive poker-faces. She sighed in frustration; Peter was too damn good at that face, the one that kept everything inside carefully hidden. Sometimes their relationship really did feel like a game; bluffing and second-guessing and losing pieces along the way…At least they were evenly matched; she could keep a straight face as well as he could. But Assumpta couldn't quite stop herself from hoping that one day he might slip up, make a false move, and then she could break through. Perhaps.

God, she felt like a drink—a strong one. Assumpta reached for a glass, averting her eyes from their table; but their voices still reached her ears.  
"Hmm…"  
"I think we've got ourselves into a stalemate."

That was it, really. A stalemate; he couldn't move, and neither could she. She knew she ought to, but instead of settling for a pawn Assumpta was just staring wistfully at a knight she'd already lost. Pointless, hopeless, helpless…It seemed like a lose-lose situation, for the both of them.

"Hang on…Ha!"  
Peter made a move, and Padraig threw up his hands in frustration. "Darn you!"  
"What can I say?" the curate grinned, getting to his feet. "I think I'll quit while I'm ahead." At the door, he turned to look at her, and the little smiling nod he gave her settled warmly in her stomach for a moment, until the door swung shut and Assumpta shook her head to clear it. It was ridiculous, but even though Peter's presence could make her uncomfortable, his absence was almost worse.

Thoughtfully sipping a glass of wine, Assumpta suddenly came to a realization. As tortuous as it seemed, this eternal game of silent glances and unspoken feelings—it was almost preferable to losing the game. Not knowing was killing her slowly, but knowing and hearing what she didn't want to…That might kill her instantly. At least, with it all still up in the air, she could speculate and hope that maybe, just maybe, things might turn out the way she wanted. God, that made her sound pathetic, childish, unable to face reality. But it was how she felt.

Drinking more deeply from her glass, the publican glanced at her watch. Another two hours till closing; till she would have nothing to distract her, but a dark empty bedroom and her own thoughts, which invariably wandered to the one man she could not have. And she'd probably think of him before closing, too. Assumpta sighed again. However brave a face she put up, she was just no good at this game.


	2. Where the Heart Is

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: Again, this is plot-less, more of a character portrait than anything. But I wrote it, so here it is. More or less just illustrates Peter's adoration for Assumpta, and every part of her life. I hope someone likes it._

**Where the Heart Is**

Peter savoured the texture of beer on his tongue as he gazed about Fitzgerald's pub. His favourite place was virtually empty tonight – apart from the unfailing presence of Brendan, Siobhan and Padraig in their usual spot. The curate lowered his glass suddenly, realizing something; Fitzgerald's was his favourite place…equal to, possibly even surpassing St. Joseph's…as inappropriate as that may be. Of course, the church meant a great deal to him as well; the centre of his work, a spiritual sanctuary, a place of beauty and calm…But, now that he thought about it, the calm of St. Joseph's would never be enough to satisfy him without the balancing cheer of Fitzgerald's…and vice versa, for that matter. Between the two, Peter felt like he had found a new balance in this little Irish town.

However, any balance is always delicate, and at the familiar sound of a woman's laughter, Peter felt the balance tip against him. He sighed.

"Another?"  
He looked up with a start, to find Assumpta smiling at him from behind the bar.  
"You'd have me drink myself into poverty," he muttered, gesturing for her to refill his glass. The landlady smirked as she pulled him a pint of lager.  
"I thought you'd already taken a vow of that."

_Yeah, it's the other one I'm regretting_, Peter found himself thinking, with some bitterness, but just laughed, shook his head, and accepted the drink. He couldn't quite keep his eyes from Assumpta as she went back to the punters, her lovely face animated in revelry. When she was happy, and sparkled, she was just _so_ beautiful…Heck, she even managed to take his breath away when blazing mad. The worst was those rare occasions when she let down her shield, and he could see that she was in turmoil. Then Peter could only just restrain himself from taking her in his arms, stroking her hair…

The curate sighed again, more heavily, and took a deep sip from his pint.

But even with such inconvenient thoughts plaguing him, tonight Peter could not feel grave for long. Not in the warm ambience of Fitzgerald's, with his friends nearby…It was quite amazing what Assumpta had done to the place, how well she kept it up practically on her own; it really was the social hub of Ballyk.

Peter remembered once having read something somewhere about people's houses, and how you could tell what a person was like by analysing where they lived…Another window to the soul, if their eyes were otherwise occupied…As Assumpta's were, at present (and anyway, Peter was already aware how dangerous it could be to hold her gaze for too long). For the first time since he'd arrived in Ballyk, the curate turned an appraising eye on Fitzgerald's.

The room was large enough to be accommodating, yet small enough to feel cosy. The lights were gentle, several little shaded lamps, which gave the place a pleasant glow. Warm colours, too; cream walls and the dark rich wood of the bar. Ebony, almost…like Assumpta's hair…  
Damn it, this was not good for him; but as a lover of books, Peter had a knack for finding symbolism. If he could just focus on the pub itself…  
Unpretentious, practical, and comfortable. At one end of the room was a varnished mantle, set with a mirror and decorated with the subtly feminine touch of lavender in little vases, and unlit candles. The other end had the great rough open fireplace. Now, if he _was_ looking for symbolism, he might think how that told of the landlady's many and varied facets; she could be fiery as hell, and then beautifully soft at other times…But of course, Peter wasn't going to let himself think about her. Definitely not. He took another sip of his lager.

Of course, at the centre of it all was the bar; numerous bottles and taps of varied alcohol. Next to it all, the blackboard menu, offering the select meals that Assumpta was preparing today. Peter liked a drink, and although he had never been anything remotely close to an alcoholic, he had always liked pubs in general. Something about the communal nature; it was a place you went to be warmed and cheered. And Fitzgerald's was a fine example. Its publican was the perfect figure catering for the needs of her customers, and Peter felt that her smiles could leave you feeling just as warmly content as any meal (or as intoxicated as any drink, for that matter).

And then, there were so many finer details to notice in the room; little decorations Assumpta had added to make the place attractive. The old map of Wicklow, vintage advertisements for Guinness or Powers, various framed paintings of landscapes…A few cupboards round the place, and a little bookshelf in the corner. Straining to see, Peter made out a few names; Sean O'Casey, Thomas Moore…Well, the landlady _had_ been through college after all, and clearly had a mind for fine literature. And then there was the staircase, leading to the second floor, the private world of the landlady…Peter had never been up those stairs. Never would. They seemed to taunt him…

Peter shook his head suddenly, and drained his glass. When you start personifying inanimate objects, you know you're in too deep. Allegorical thinking was not good for this priest, it seemed. He should probably call it a night, and go home.

"You're awfully pensive tonight, Father," called Brendan, from down the bar. Assumpta was leaning against the wall, in her usual way. She smirked.  
"Pondering the fate of the world, are we?"  
"Ah, let me buy you a drink," the schoolteacher offered with a smile, and Peter stood up to join them. "It's too early for you to go home yet."  
As he took a seat between Siobhan and Brendan, and accepted a glass from the smiling publican, Peter found himself thinking that, really, he might be home already.


	3. Afflicted

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is set directly after "One Night Only", when Assumpta is only half-aware of the extent of her feelings, and when everything is still relatively simple._

_The lyrics used here are Gershwin, obviously not mine. Enjoy (I hope!)_

**Afflicted**

Groaning as consciousness dawned on her, Assumpta buried her face in the softness of her pillow, pulled the covers over her head, and screwed her eyes shut. But try as she might, sleep would not return; she knew it. Throwing off the covers with a frustrated groan, the young woman gazed hopelessly around her room. The curtains were not quite drawn, and she could see the moon; full, silver, luminous. Taunting.

Abruptly, Assumpta got to her feet and stumbled to the window, nearly tripping over her slippers in the dark, and drew the curtains. Now her room was filled with pale moonlight; hardly conducive to sleep, but then, she knew she wasn't going to get any anyway. She should have been exhausted, after the night's performance – she _was_ exhausted – but she was too familiar with this state. It didn't afflict her often, but when it did…Come to think of it, it was sort of like being a werewolf (she snorted at that thought); most of the time she was a calm, rational being, but every once in a while she would suffer an attack of…lunacy? The full moon did seem to make it worse, that was true. Yes, lunacy was the right term; she was being stupid, but right now she couldn't do a thing about it.

Assumpta sighed and perched on the edge of the bed, warming one bare foot under the other uselessly. Part of what made it so stupid was that she _was not_ the romantic type; she'd never touched a romantic novel, scoffed at saccharine love scenes, and didn't fall for the corny lines men often threw her. No, she was calm and logical…except on nights like this, when she felt the inexplicable urge to drink wine, eat chocolate, and indulge in soppy romanticism. Assumpta flicked on her bedside light, cringing at the sudden brightness, and scanned her bookshelf for something suitable. Maybe it was Brendan and Padraig's 'intense' play that had got her thinking about such things…At that thought, her shoulders sagged a little. Who was she kidding?

She knew very well that it wasn't that onstage kiss that had brought this on; it was a kiss that hadn't even _happened_, for God's sake! A kiss that would have been dangerous if it _had_ happened. She should be glad things turned out the way they did. But Assumpta wasn't, at all. No, instead some disobedient part of her brain kept replaying that afternoon in rehearsal, those few moments of precarious hope, longing. God, what was she doing? He was a priest, of all things! The most unavailable of all men, and shouldn't even be attractive! But he was more than a priest…Much more…There should be a rule, Assumpta decided, that handsome, charismatic men should be refused ordination – to prevent female parishioners being led to sinful thoughts…_God, I'm stupid when I'm half-asleep!_

Lying back on the bed and pulling the covers half over herself, Assumpta cocked her head, a memory returning. Another time she'd had an attack of the romantics, back at college…

Leo had cancelled a date; he'd had something pressing to do, so she had found herself dressed up with nowhere to be. The most unsettling thing had been that she didn't feel disappointed. So she had just walked, without any real destination in mind. Assumpta had always found that walking was an excellent way to work things out and put your mind at ease. She had lost track of how long she'd been out, but her feet kept going so she just went with it; and then she'd found herself outside the museum, so she'd gone in. Once again, her feet seemed to be fairly sure of themselves, and soon enough she found herself standing before a great plaster figure of Aphrodite. Goddess of love. Assumpta remembered now how dejected she'd felt; a _really_ subtle hint from above, eh?

Looking back now, Assumpta almost envied her former self. Though things had seemed bad then, they'd been simple as anything compared to her life at present! Why was nothing ever simple? Why couldn't some perfect man sweep her effortlessly off her feet? And why did she have this stupid, nagging feeling that she really knew what she wanted…And knew that it wasn't available…

The woman kicked off the covers and reached out to turn on the radio. An old-fashioned jazzy tune was playing, it sounded distinctly like Gershwin, and horribly like a love song. Indeed, when the singer began, Assumpta nearly punched the pillow.

_They're writing songs of love, but not for me  
A lucky star's above, but not for me  
With love to lead the way, I've found more skies of grey  
That any Russian play could guarantee…_

Assumpta sighed, letting herself fall limp on the bed. She could last out tonight, and things would improve. She'd get over it, over this stupid fancy – over _him_ – with time. Surely…


	4. Waking

_Author's Note__: _I know it's been years since I've added anything to this little collection of vignettes, but it's the right place to post this little plotless piece. I was watching the episodes during Assumpta's marriage to Leo (which I don't do often!) and was struck by Leo's midnight wanderings. So I thought I'd write this short comparison piece. I hope someone enjoys it.

Reviews are always appreciated, if and when you have the time.

* * *

**Waking**

Assumpta shifted slightly, still mostly asleep. She was slowly becoming conscious of the feel of cool sheets against her legs. She was cold, too, and every passing second made her less asleep and more aware of it. She didn't need to roll over to know that the spot behind her lay vacant.

_Leo…_

She wondered where he went. She tried to care. But in her unguarded state of half-sleep, she found herself unable to pretend anything that she didn't truly feel. And what Assumpta truly felt was exhausted, and disillusioned, and alone. And cold.

All she could think to do was huddle into the foetal position and pull the whole duvet close around her: it wasn't as though her husband would miss it. That simple recognition made her feel a little sick, so Assumpta screwed her eyes shut and tried to imagine that Leo McGarvey's suitcases were not under her bed and on top of her wardrobe. That his shoes weren't lined up with hers by the door. That his _presence_ in her bed would be more remarkable than his absence.

Unguarded as she was, Assumpta Fitzgerald felt a tear roll down her cheek.

* * *

Assumpta wasn't sure what had woken her. And in that moment, she could not find it in herself to care, because the room was silent and pitch black, and she was pleasantly warm. That, she thought mildly, would be on account of the arms around her, and the warm body pressed against her back. Deliciously warm.

_Peter…_

The smile that curved her lips was almost unconscious. She was awake enough now to remember how she'd climbed into bed with her husband just a few hours ago. Awake enough to remember the half-adorable, half-delicious sight of Peter in pyjama bottoms and nothing more…She still hadn't quite got used to it. In fact, in her unguarded state of half-sleep, Assumpta was not at all embarrassed to feel an indiscreet level of happiness in the knowledge that her life was now full of Peter.

Her face broke into a sleepy grin as she thought about his razor next to her soap in the bathroom, his books piled on top of hers on bedside tables, his shoes lined up with her ones by the door. Perhaps best of all, his ring on her finger.

But no, what was _really_ best of all was that as she shifted slightly, the man snuggled close behind her gave a sleepy moan and nuzzled into her shoulder.

Unguarded as she was, Assumpta Fitzgerald felt a tear roll down her cheek.


	5. Closeness

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: The piece of writing that follows is flagrant, shameless self-indulgence. It doesn't build a plot-line or answer any difficult questions - it just shows our two beloved characters being happy together. I like the idea of Assumpta mellowing a little under the effect of Peter's love...so I made some flimsy excuse for the curate's cottage to be unavailable for a few nights, and voila, we have Peter & Assumpta sleeping under the same roof._

_Please note that these vignettes aren't published chronologically - in the last one published, "Waking", Peter & Assumpta were already married, but here they have only quite recently confessed their feelings._

_I'm a touch nervous about publishing this one...so if you feel inclined, reviews and comments (including criticism of the constructive kind) would be most welcome!_

**Closeness**

Assumpta Fitzgerald rolled over in bed, heaving a sigh and slamming her fist into the opposite pillow for good measure. Sleep was proving elusive, and she knew exactly why. She had always thought that, if ever by some miracle she was able to express her feelings for Peter Clifford and he returned them, her sleepless nights would be ended. Apparently, this was not going to be the case.

Oh, Assumpta knew she'd be an ungrateful wretch to complain – her 'miracle' had indeed occurred a couple of weeks ago, and she could now rest in complete certainty that Peter Clifford loved her. He struggled to hide it these days, even when they were in public – she smiled at the thought. Yes, that part was turning out really rather well…but sleep was still elusive. Usually she slept alright, but this particular evening she couldn't help being all aflutter – because tonight, the man who she was very definitely in love with was sleeping just two doors down the hall.

They'd hardly been sure whether it was incredibly convenient or distinctly dangerous when Quigley had had another offer from tourists who wanted to let the curate's cottage, and out of consideration for Brian's financial situation Peter was practically forced to take up Assumpta's 'generous offer' of a room for a week or so. Peter was going through the formal process of laicisation from the priesthood, and they had not yet made their relationship public. Assumpta wondered vaguely whether they'd make it through a week of sharing breakfasts without someone noticing a spontaneous kiss goodbye…

But for the moment, it was the very memory of those spontaneous kisses which was keeping her from drifting off. Knowing that Peter was sleeping just down the hall…  
She kept thinking of the story of Tantalus that her Da had used to read to her from a book of Greek myths – what she wanted was so very close, and yet…

_Tap tap._

At first she thought she'd imagined it – the wishful thinking of a woman deranged with longing – but no, there it was again. A soft, tentative knocking on her door. Blinking, suddenly nervous, she managed to find her voice.  
"Err, yeah?"  
"Assumpta? It's me."  
A smile curved her mouth as she propped herself up on one elbow, raising her voice to converse through the closed door.  
"Damn, there I was hoping for Brad Pitt."  
"Sorry to disappoint."  
She could hear the grin in the way he spoke, she could practically see the look on his face…and there was something exciting about talking surreptitiously through a bedroom door like this, in the pitch black. It was somehow…flirtatious…  
Assumpta smirked at her own idiocy.

"Anyway…um, can I come in? For a minute…"  
That had her snapping to attention, and for a moment she floundered, but after ensuring that she was decent and presentable, she nodded, "Yeah, sure."  
Her eyes were more adjusted to the dark than Peter's, but even so she heard him more than she saw him as he opened the door and slipped inside, shutting it behind him. He felt his way across the room, stumbling over Assumpta's shoes briefly, but her laughter died away when Peter sat down on the edge of her bed. That hint of contact made her want him even closer immediately, but Assumpta managed to divert her attention to the formation of sentences.

"What's up?"  
He ducked his head, in that sweet way he would when he was embarrassed, or trying to look casual. "Nothing. I, err, just…couldn't sleep."  
She might have replied, '_join the club'_, but a long-held cautiousness kept Assumpta frozen, and she pressed, "Is something wrong?"  
And Peter laughed – a warm, joyful sound that melted something in her, even as she frowned in confusion.  
"No, no, nothing's wrong – that's just it. Plenty of things _could _be wrong – _should _be – but despite all the complications we're going through, I've never felt more… That's why I can't sleep. Because nothing's wrong."

Assumpta was glad of the darkness – they were still getting used to this new honesty, after years of hiding what they felt, and for the moment it suited her fine that Peter couldn't see just how affected she was by his obvious happiness. But when she spoke, her voice betrayed the depth of her feeling anyway.  
"Yeah, well, I haven't been sleeping so well either."  
Peter chuckled softly at her subtle admission, putting a hand out to rest on top of the duvet. He didn't say anything more, but he made no move to stand up, either. Assumpta drew a deep breath: she knew she shouldn't push him, but…

"Can I just…hold you?"

She blinked. She'd only hoped, she hadn't _expected _him to_…_  
But there was no doubt in Peter's tone, no guilt at his own suggestion. He was just asking her permission, making sure he wasn't crossing any boundaries. As she felt her pulse quicken quite against her will, Assumpta shuffled over to make room for him, lifting the duvet in welcome.  
"Well," she smiled, not even sure why she was apparently desperate to keep the tone casual, "I can't have people freezing to death in my accommodation – it's bad for business. Hop in."

Peter slid into the bed beside her, settling into the warm space she had previously occupied, but Assumpta didn't mind giving up her cosy spot – if the way her temperature rose was any indication, she'd warm up the other side of the bed quick enough. There was a moment of adjustment as they repositioned the duvet, and Peter plumped the pillows so that his head was level with hers. They lay opposite each other, parallel, and after a moment the man reached out and placed a hand on Assumpta's waist. She smiled at the tentative contact, and shifted a little closer, letting her own arm come to rest on Peter's hip. Warmth was already radiating between them.

"That's better," he murmured, and she had to grin, even if she was currently experiencing more butterflies in her stomach than she had in her entire life. She and Peter had never been quite this close, quite this alone – quite this _horizontal_ – and Assumpta was incredibly aware of it.

"Sorry if my feet are cold," he whispered, and it seemed such a thoroughly unromantic thing to say that Assumpta laughed a little, and relaxed.  
"I'm surprised they're not sticking out the end of the bed – you're taller than me."  
Peter smiled, letting his thumb brush her waist in a casual caress.  
"Oh, I'm quite comfortable, thanks."

And he certainly seemed to be. She wouldn't have picked it. Since they'd got together he hadn't hesitated to express his feelings, that was true – after all, they had some lost time to make up for – but nevertheless Assumpta wouldn't have expected him to be comfortable just yet with this kind of intimacy, comparatively innocent as it was. She _could_ sense that he was a little cautious, testing the waters for them both – but apparently his other feelings were overriding any trepidation. He surprised her constantly. And she liked it.

Assumpta was pulled from her little reverie when Peter broke the silence.  
"I just realized…I haven't been in the same bed with another person since…since I was nine, and my brother and I had to top-'n-tail when we went on holiday to Blackpool."  
Assumpta chuckled, imagining Peter as a child.  
"Niamh and I used to top-'n-tail, when I'd stay the night at her house. One time there was a power cut, and her Mammy let us sleep in the lounge on mattresses like we were going camping, and we toasted bread over the fire…It was fun."  
Peter's arm tightened a little around her waist, only adding to the warm feeling spreading through her. In that moment, it seemed to Assumpta that, for all the hardships, she had really been quite lucky in her life. Peter's warm breath tickled her forehead.  
"_We_ could always top-'n-tail, if you want."  
Something about the teasing tone of his voice combined with his breath against her skin made Assumpta shiver, but she managed to roll her eyes in scorn, even as she snuggled a little closer, causing him to grin smugly. "Ahh, I'm comfy enough as is."  
Peter's reply was slow, and satisfied, and as full of warm affection as two monosyllabic words could be. "Me too."

"It's kind of surreal, isn't it?"  
"Hmm?"  
"That we can lie here together like this. After so many nights imagining…"  
"Imagining, Father Clifford?" Assumpta teased, raising an eyebrow. "Imagining what, exactly?"  
Peter laughed, flustered, and rolled his eyes. "Being close to you, like this."  
"Hmmm," she grinned, taking care to sound unconvinced. She shouldn't tease him, she knew, but she had to maintain _some_ kind of high-ground when every innocent brush of his thumb across her waist was making her shiver. And anyway, he didn't seem to mind. A silly little smile lit her face.

"So what's your favourite colour, then?"  
"What?" Peter drew back enough to look down at her.  
"I'm making conversation. Getting to know you. Being close."  
"Assumpta, we're in bed together – I think we're past the stage for 'ice-breakers'."  
"Speaking of which…how much does a polar bear weigh?"  
The man rolled his eyes, laughing now, but as he dutifully answered "Enough to break the ice," the smile between them was coloured by the echo of another conversation – one which seemed to have occurred so very long ago, in the time before they were happy like this. And now, this felt so right – to be lying in bed together, talking about nothing and everything.

"And, for your information," Peter continued, "my favourite colour is green, if I have to choose one. Dark green."  
"You chose the right country, then." Assumpta smirked. "Mine's red, I think."  
"Mm, I like you in red."  
She had just raised her eyebrows in gratified surprise at the compliment, when he added, "Middlesbrough colours," and she smacked him on the arm, but failed to maintain her glare.

"Right, my turn," Peter grinned, changing the subject for the sake of his continued good health, "umm…What's your favourite book?"  
"That's impossible," Assumpta protested, "there are so many."  
"Fair point," the man nodded, "I couldn't choose just one either. I do love books though – I've always meant to browse the ones you've got on the shelves in the bar, but I've never had a chance."  
"Well, maybe you'll get a chance now," she suggested, smiling at the implication. "Do you good to get some Sean O'Casey into you."  
"Only if you read T.H. White."  
"Deal."

Any self-consciousness had long since dissipated, and Assumpta realized that sometime during the last five minutes she had gone from lying parallel to Peter to being snuggled right up against him, his chin level with the top of her head and her lips tantalisingly close to the skin of his neck. She breathed deep, contentedly, and inhaled the delicious scent of him – heady and masculine. Feeling it go to her head, Assumpta cautioned herself against getting carried away.

"Mmm, I love you," she breathed, before she'd even realized she was speaking aloud. Peter's arms tightened around her again, and he nuzzled in to press a kiss on her hair and murmured with quiet sincerity, "I love you too."  
Assumpta smiled and pressed a lingering kiss to his neck, before sighing again in contentment. As she lay there, enveloped in warmth and Peter, some part of her brain acknowledged mildly that to be pressed up against the man's torso like this, their bodies aligned, was delicious and really rather tempting…but on the other hand, she was so perfectly comfortable and sweetly drowsy that to move at all and break the spell would be a terrible waste. No, she'd just lie there, with him…

_Mmm…_

* * *

It was warm and dark and she was still mostly asleep, but something was stirring around the edges of Assumpta's consciousness. She wasn't alone in bed. There were arms around her, and the even sighs of a man's breathing, and – what, it seemed, had woken her – warm lips brushing her cheekbone. Eyes still closed, Assumpta couldn't help an almost delirious smile lighting her face as her drowsy mind pieced it all together.

_Peter._

It was wonderful enough to be a dream, and she'd certainly had many like it in the past…but no, this was real. She felt his lips brush her cheek again, a feather-light touch that seemed almost unintentional – and a sleepy sigh of contentment escaped her. Assumpta tilted her head to face him, seeking more soft, sweet touches. It wasn't long before her mouth found his.

Peter murmured sleepy contentment against her lips as one tender, half-conscious kiss became two, and then three. His hand stirred at her waist, sliding up the fabric of her t-shirt with more instinct than intent to caress her back and pull her closer against him – and it was the most natural thing in the world to respond in kind, letting her fingers trace caresses on his chest.

"Mm, 'Sumpta…" he murmured, dipping his head to nuzzle the skin of her neck.  
"Mmm," she replied, because anything more coherent was becoming increasingly improbable with every stroke of Peter's fingers down her spine. Nonetheless, she was not quite so dazed as to be unaware that they were teetering on a rather significant brink: one that meant a lot to both of them.

Then Peter's mouth was on her neck in slow, sensual kisses, and _ohhh God help her_, how was she supposed to do anything but gasp? This was definitely dangerous ground…but nothing seemed to _matter_ in that dark, warm world between the covers. Nothing could possibly be wrong.

And, said the petulant-child-within, the last time he'd been kissing her neck so exquisitely, she'd been responsible and sensible and pushed him away. But now, now they knew they loved each other, and they were going to be together…Why _shouldn't_ they indulge in this closeness?

So Assumpta gave herself over to sensation, for a few blissful minutes…until a particularly well-placed kiss beneath her ear caused a soft moan to escape her lips, and Assumpta found herself surfacing suddenly, with a slightly shocking awareness of just how lost in him she'd been. And she had to tell him, she had to see him, she had to look into his breath-taking eyes…so she pulled back a little, dipping her head so that her lips brushed Peter's ear.

"Peter…darling… Are we awake?"  
He drew back a little, hands stilling on her back, his breathing as ragged as hers was.  
"Hmm? I…I wouldn't be surprised if this was a dream. I've had some like it."  
Assumpta chuckled softly, her fingers stroking his shoulders calmingly.  
"Me too," she admitted, and couldn't resist kissing his cheekbone. "But maybe we should…"  
"Yeah," Peter nodded, catching her unarticulated meaning and drawing back further until there was a careful several inches between their bodies, just his hand still at her waist. She felt colder immediately, but the dark eyes glittering at her from the opposite pillow were proving a more than adequate consolation prize.

"Sorry," he added sheepishly, but – she was pleased to note – without any deep regret. Assumpta raised a hand to stroke his cheek.  
"Don't be. Quite aside from being completely wonderful…that was both of us."  
"I love you," he whispered - a declaration that continued to stun her on a day-to-day basis, let alone when she'd just been thoroughly kissed, "and, when the time is right, I want to be completely awake and alert, and love…every inch of you."

The promise of his words sent a flush right through her, and for a moment Assumpta thought she'd have to send him back to his own room if he was going to say things like that…but no, what she wanted was to be close to Peter, and close to him she'd stay – until the morning came and they had to face reality yet again.  
She exhaled a ragged breath, shaking her head at him.  
"Sometimes, you know, you're disgustingly perfect."  
Peter chuckled softly as she rolled over, grabbing his hand in a wordless direction that he should hold her – an embrace he was more than happy to provide.  
"I'm sorry you find me so utterly repulsive," he murmured in her ear, a smug little smile in his tone.  
"Hmm," was all Assumpta trusted herself to say, because she was too drowsy and too happy and too goddamn _in_ _love_ to think of any snarky retort at 2 in the morning. She could only smile.

And as they drifted off again in the pitch-black bedroom, Peter and Assumpta held each other close.


End file.
